


somethin' like that

by PaintedVanilla



Category: Marvel Noir, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: 1930s, Bisexual Female Character, Blood and Injury, Colors, Established Relationship, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Non-Graphic Violence, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: “You Peter’s gal?”“Somethin’ like that,”





	somethin' like that

**Author's Note:**

> this is definitely more mavel noir than it is spiderverse, like... it is spiderverse fic. but only like... 20% spiderverse fic. the other 80% is marvel noir.
> 
> um so i dont wanna have to explain a bunch of stuff about my spidersona. you get bits and pieces of her backstory throughout, but just know she didn't meet noir and the other spiders during the events of the movie. she met them later on. her universe also only exists in pastels, kinda like how noir's only exists in black and white, so she doesn't see many fully saturated colors outside of her own dimension. um that's all. pls don't come for me for shipping my spidersona with a character hgfjafhjfghdsk.

The pain blooming in Betty’s shoulder is white hot and spreading. She comes to a stop as soon as she can find cover, not wanting to inspire another pull of the trigger. She reaches over her shoulder and touches her fingers to the wound through her suit, and it hurts like hell even after she retracts them. Even in the darkness, she can see the scarlet on her hand against a monochrome background.

Peter is at her side suddenly, and the rooftop is silent, and she wonders if in her moment of distraction he took care of their little problem. He crouches down next to her and takes her wrist gently, noting the blood. “You’re hurt.”

Betty swallows; any other time she would insist she were fine. But any other time she wouldn’t necessarily be exposing innocent people to a color they’ve never seen before in their lives. Every second she wastes is a second leaving a train of crimson that leads right to her. She looks up at Peter. “Yeah,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly hard. “I need to go back to May’s.”

“No!” Peter exclaims, startling her. He let’s go of her wrist at the sound of voices, looking over to the side of the building. There’s more problems on the way, and Betty’s in no shape to help solve them. He looks back at her. “May can’t know about this. She’d never speak to me again.”

“Well, where do you want me to go?” Betty asks. “I can’t just show up to a hospital, no one here’s ever seen the color red! They can’t very well fix this without lookin’ at my blood, Peter!”

He hesitates, then says, “The Black Cat Club.”

“What?” Betty asks.

“Go to the Black Cat Club,” Peter tells her. He takes her gently by her forearm and helps her to her feet. “Can you swing?”

“With my left side,” Betty assures him. “Where’s the club?”

“Where your friend Suzanne’s fabric store is in your New York,” Peter tells her. He ushers her over to the edge of the roof, taking his coat off as he does. “Can you get there from here?”

“I - ” Betty hesitates, looking around. Everything is black and white and grey, but vaguely familiar if she looks close enough. “Maybe.”

“It’s not far,” Peter assures her. “But it’ll be hard to find. Ask for Felicia Hardy. Tell her Peter Parker sent you.”

“You want me to give ‘em your name?” Betty asks, startled.

“She knows me,” Peter tells her, and then there’s another gunshot and they both wince, missed by just an inch. He wraps his coat around her hastily and pulls out his own revolver. “Regrettably, I cannot kiss you goodbye.”

“I forgive you,” Betty says, and she hopes he can hear the hint of the smile since he can’t see it. 

The Black Cat Club  _ is  _ hard to find. It’s existence isn’t exactly being advertised. By the time Betty manages to drape herself against the door and knock as hard as she can, she can feel blood trickling its way down her lower back. It’s warm against the cool night air, and she can only pray she hasn’t left a trail.

The man who answers the door scowls at her. “We don’t serve your kind.”

Betty wishes she could take her mask off to beg, but that wouldn’t get the reaction she wants. Instead she looks up at him and hopes he can see her pleading through the mask. “I’m lookin’ for Felicia Hardy.”

The name registers in her mind as it settles on her tongue, and suddenly she’s startled by the reality she’s standing in. On the doorstep of the Black Cat Club, she’s about to introduce herself for the first time to someone she’s already well acquainted with. 

“Ms. Hardy doesn’t entertain these days,” the man tells her coldly.

“Peter Parker sent me,” Betty says earnestly.

The man somehow scowls harder. “Ms. Hardy doesn’t associate with Mr. Parker.”

He starts to shut the door, but Betty reaches out and splays her hand across it gently, a silent plea. “Please,” she says, and her voice sounds so quiet. “He wouldn’t send me if it wasn’t important.”

The man’s face never softens, but maybe he can tell how much pain she’s in, because he eases open the door and lets her come inside. “You need to take the mask off.”

“I can’t,” Betty says. “It’s very important I  _ not  _ do that.”

He seems frustrated with her answer, but nevertheless he leads her through the club. Eyes fall on her as she follows him through the sultry mood of the room, curious about her. She almost thinks to herself that the club might be somewhere she would find herself hanging out, if it were washed in pastels rather than monochrome. 

She can feel minute trails of blood crawling down the back of her thigh. She hopes the scarlet isn’t visible on the black fabric. She wishes they could make their way up this staircase just a little faster.

“Ms. Hardy,” the man says as they reach a door. “Someone here to see you.”

“I don’t entertain nowadays,” floats a voice through the door, and just hearing her Betty thinks she  _ sounds  _ gorgeous. 

“May I speak to her?” Betty asks, and the man frowns but he steps back slightly to let her shuffle closer to the door.

“Ms. Hardy,” Betty says gently. “My name is Betty Parker. I’m in… Peter’s line ‘a work. I’ve been shot in the shoulder. He sent me to you. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Plenty ‘a places to go when you get shot,” says the voice through the door.

“Not for me,” Betty pleads. “I think you’re the only one who can help me. Please, Ms. Hardy?”

There’s a long moment, and just when Betty thinks she isn’t going to respond at all, the lock clicks. The door creaks open just an inch, and Betty lets out a sigh of relief and slips inside. There’s no one standing anywhere near the door as Betty shuts it.

“Ms. Hardy?” Betty asks, taking a hesitant step into the room. She starts to feel dizzy as she takes in her surroundings. The room is awash in soft lighting, and perched around on different surfaces are several cats. 

“They breeding spider people now or something?” a voice asks from behind her. Betty turns her head to find a woman perched on the stool of a vanity, her face hidden behind a cat mask. 

Betty blinks at her. “Somethin’ like that.”

Felicia stands; she’s adorned in a loosely tied robe, and Betty can’t help but think she looks elegant. She takes a step towards her. “You Peter’s gal?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Betty says again. She looks away, trying to find something to sit on that she won’t stain with blood. “We ain’t married or anythin’ like that. Parker’s just my maiden name.”

Everything in Felicia’s room seems to be of a lighter shade of grey; red would stand out on everything, so rather than stain something and force her to get rid of anything, she takes Peter’s coat off and drops it on the floor, sitting down on it. “I’m dreadfully sorry to impede like this.”

Betty can’t see Felicia’s expression, but she seems curious as she approaches. “Why’d Peter send you to me?”

“I’m not from around here,” Betty tells her, trying to keep all the weight off her right shoulder.

Felicia crouches down next to her. “I’m not much more help than a nurse would be.”

“I’ve been told nobody here is a very big fan ‘a the Spider Man,” Betty quips. “Unless that doesn’t applies to nurses, I think you’re my best bet.”

“‘Can take your suit off to go to the hospital,” Felicia says; she lays a hand on Betty’s shoulder, not directly over the wound, but just to inspect the damage. She’s about to continue with another snide remark, but before she can, she withdraws her hand and gasps.

Her fingers are coated in a thin layer of Betty’s blood, a dark pastel red that stands out starkly against the rest of the room. Felicia hardly hesitates when she takes her mask off, revealing the several scars littering her face, the tissue a lighter shade of grey than the rest of her skin. She raises her hand to her face, her eyes wide as she takes in color for the first time. 

“I’m sorry to get acquainted like this,” Betty says. She reaches a hand out and takes Felicia’s in hers, shaking it formally. “I’m Betty Parker. Or, more orthodox, Elizabeth. But I prefer Betty.”

She retracts her hand from Felicia’s and holds it up; the blood now spread over the palm. “This is red. I’m sorry your first encounter with it had to be as it leaks outta my shoulder. It’s the color of my blood.”

Felicia blinks at her, shaking her head. “Blood isn’t…” she seems to struggle for a moment. “Blood isn’t  _ that,  _ blood is  _ black.” _

“Not mine,” Betty says gently. “Like I said. I’m not from around here.”

Betty sits in silence for a long moment, allowing Felicia to look over her hand, knowing she must be startled. When she met Peter, he’d already been acquainted with colors, though not quite the exact palette of her New York. Even so, it took him time to adjust to the reality of her dimension. She also knows it took her a long time to be able to look at the other spiders without wincing at seeing colors she had never seen before. Still, she can’t imagine living her life in black and white and being introduced to color on a random Tuesday night. 

“Ms. Hardy,” Betty says gently, after some time. Felicia pulls her attention away from her hand, where the blood is drying now. Betty gives her a soft smile that quickly devolves into a wince. “I know new colors are… difficult to process. But I could really use your help dressin’ this.”

Felicia blinks, then looks down at Betty’s shoulder and seems to compose herself immediately. She starts to put her mask back on, but then she falters and instead tosses it to the side, deciding it’s useless if her face has already been revealed. She stands up, making her way quickly over to the bathroom. “Take your mask off.”

“I don’t wanna distract you,” Betty says earnestly.

Felicia turns her head, raising an eyebrow at her. Betty blushes. “That’s not what I mean,” she says quickly, which makes her even dizzier. “Colors. More colors. You’ll see more colors. I don’t wanna startle you.”

She reaches over her head with her left hand and unclasps the back of her suit. “You’ll need to use towels you wouldn’t mind burnin’.”

“Got plenty ‘a those,” Felicia says lightly. “Take off the mask.”

“Nary a fan of masks?” Betty asks.

“They only cause me trouble,” Felicia says. As she leaves the bathroom, two towels in her hand, she grabs a bottle of liquor. “No rubbing alcohol. You a fan of whisky?”

Betty huffs, almost smiling despite the circumstances. She reaches up and pulls her mask off. “Just need somethin’ to bite down on.”

She folds over her mask several times until it’s small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Felicia doesn’t move the entire time, staring at her. Betty glances up at her nervously. “I know it’s difficult to process. I’m real sorry to show up and make you see things you’ve never seen before. But… the bullet wound?”

Felicia orrients herself again, sitting down on Betty’s right side and pulling her suit down. She wipes the skin with a damp towel and inspects it. “It doesn’t look too bad for a gunshot.”

“I don’t think it hit bone,” Betty says conversationally. “Course, I dunno what type ‘a gun. I’ll have to figure that out when I get home.”

Felicia hesitates, still wiping the dried blood off her skin. “Where is home?”

Betty grins, not looking at her, wondering how to explain. “What a complicated question,” she muses quietly.

Felicia doesn’t comment on that. Instead she just pops the cap off the whisky and holds it up. “Bite down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Betty says softly, biting down hard on the fabric of her mask. She grinds her teeth down against it as the whisky hits her shoulder, but the sharp sting only lasts a few moments before Felicia wipes it away. 

“You’re not as loud as Peter,” Felicia comments, bringing the second, clean towel up to finish cleaning her shoulder.

Betty can’t help the blush that spreads across her cheeks. “You dress Peter’s wounds often?”

“Not nowadays,” Felicia assures her. “I don’t see Peter much anymore.”

She leans closer to Betty’s face, forcing her to take in the appearance of her scarred face for the first time. “Not after he did this.”

Betty swallows. “Peter did that?”

Felicia stands suddenly, moving back over to the bathroom. “His line of work did,” she says bitterly. She opens a drawer and pulls out a roll of gauze, then slams it shut and turns around to face her. “Those spiders trap a lot of people in their webs. Not everyone gets along.”

Betty raises her left hand and uses her web shooter to snatch the gauze out of Felicia’s hand, startling her. Betty holds the gauze up with a slight smile. “I know.”

Felicia blinks, trying not to look so shocked. She smooths her robe out and walks back over to her. “So they are breeding spiders.”

“Not quite,” Betty says, handing her the gauze as she sits back down. “I’m… from another dimension.”

Felicia looks at her curiously, but she doesn’t seem confused, so Betty continues. “Where I’m from, Peter doesn’t exist. He’s not the Spider Man, I am. Well, Spider Lady. It’s also… 1958. And we have, uh…” she picks at a lock of her hair, “color.”

Felicia reaches up and touches her hair. She fixates on it for a moment, then drops it and starts unwrapping the gauze. “I can see why Peter’s so interested.”

Betty blushes again, looking away. “Yeah.”

Felicia starts dressing her shoulder, and it’s gentle but firm at the same time. “I think it’s only fair you know Peter used to spend a lot ‘a time at the Black Cat Club.”

Betty hums. “I figured.”

Felicia pauses. “Is that an issue?”

Betty looks up at her, eyes a bit wide. “No!” she exclaims, but her voice is still soft. “I mean, really, I  _ figured.  _ Handsome as he is. And you’re  _ gorgeous.” _

Felicia looks away, frowning. She resumes dressing the wound without saying anything.

Betty looks back down. “I mean it. I really don’t mind. I used to be married.”

“Used to be?” Felicia asks.

Betty looks back up at her sadly. “Spiders trap a lot of people in their webs,” she quotes. “Not everyone gets along.”

Felicia holds eye contact with her for a moment, then looks back down at her shoulder, trying to focus on it. She seems to sense the heaviness of the topic, so she changes it. “So you’re from the future?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Betty says, looking around the room for something else to focus on. One of the cats, a black one, perched on a nightstand leaps down and takes interest in her. Rather than elaborate on being from a different time period, Betty focuses herself on getting the cat to come close enough to pet it.

A smile settles on Felicia’s lips. “That’s Noir.”

Betty laughs shortly, and Felicia frowns. “What?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Betty says earnestly, looking at her. “It’s just… I talk to a lot of, uh, spider… people? From other dimensions. Peter isn’t the only one named Peter, so most of ‘em call him Noir.”

Betty busies herself petting the cat while Felicia finishes up with her shoulder. Once she pins the gauze down, Betty pulls her suit back up over her shoulder and refastens it in the back. 

“I really can’t thank you enough, Ms. Hardy,” Betty says as Felicia folds the stained towels. “I’m sorry about those.”

“‘S fine,” Felicia says. “I don’t owe Peter any favors, but… you seem nice.”

Betty smiles at her softly, then looks down. She runs her fingers over the fabric of Peter’s coat underneath her. Felicia reaches over and toys with the sleeve of it. “This Peter’s?”

“Yeah,” Betty says quietly.

Felicia hesitates, then she says, “Wouldn’t be the first time it’s been tossed on my floor.”

Betty blushes, but before she can comment, Felicia grabs her face with one hand and tilts it towards her. She stares at her for a moment, then she says, “Your cheeks are a different… color.”

“I’m blushin’,” Betty says. She takes Felicia by the wrist and gently removes her hand. “My face gets kinda pink.”

“Pink?” Felicia asks.

“Yeah,” Betty says. “It’s like red, but lighter.”

Felicia looks from the towels, to her face, then to her hair. She reaches out and takes a lock of it between her fingers. “And what color is your hair?”

Betty has to force herself not to laugh; Felicia just dressed her wound, it wouldn’t do any good to make fun of her. “Still red.”

“Oh,” Felicia says quietly, letting go. “Lot ‘a shades of… red.”

“Yeah,” Betty says quietly. “My eyes are brown, but besides that there’s… not much variety.”

Felicia studies her eyes for a moment, then she leans away and says, “You look like you got a lot on your mind.”

“I always seem to,” Betty says, and she tries to keep her tone light, but it’s a little bitter. “Bein’ a spider is an interesting line of work, I suppose.”

Felicia hums. “That’s not really what I meant.”

Betty tries to suppress a smile, but it doesn’t work very well. Instead, she ends up grinning kind of sheepishly. “I shouldn’t be that easy to read.”

“I’m quite literate,” Felicia admits. 

Betty sighs, then looks at her earnestly. “You’re a lot prettier than me.”

Felicia raises her eyebrows. “That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

“But it is true,” Betty says. “You and Peter, was it… serious?”

“Serious enough,” Felicia mutters, reaching a hand up to touch her cheek. She catches Betty’s gaze, though, and realizes that might’ve been the wrong thing to say. “Peter was sweet on me, but I… you know, I let him spend the night, but never anything else. I wasn’t his girlfriend.”

Felicia looks at her curiously. “Are  _ you _ his girlfriend?”

Betty blushes again. “Feels silly to call it that.”

Felicia watches her closely. “You’re  _ real  _ sweet on him, huh?”

Betty blushes even harder, looking away. “Sometimes I think I like him more than he likes me,” she looks back over at Felicia, “is that silly?”

Felicia blinks, then looks down. “I don’t really have these kinds ‘a conversations.”

Betty hesitates. “Can I tell you somethin’?”

Felicia doesn’t respond, but she does look back to her, so Betty continues, “Sometimes I think he only likes me because I’m in pastels. He’s all blacks and whites a greys and I’m… reds and browns and pinks. Maybe that’s all that makes me interesting.”

Felicia stares at her. “Maybe so.”

Betty blinks, a little startled by her response. She’s not sure why she expected sympathy, though. “I know you.”

Felicia grins. “We’ve never met. I’d remember a face like yours.”

“I’m sure you would,” Betty says knowingly. “But I do know you. Not  _ you,  _ but… I know Felicia Hardy.”

Felicia stares at her. “How?”

“I’m the spider in my dimension,” Betty says slowly. “So I take Peter’s spot. But other people aren’t… quite so different.”

Betty looks her up and down. “She’s just like you.”

Felicia scowls, looking away. “Not  _ just  _ like me.”

“No,” Betty says softly. “She’s in color, too.”

Felicia looks back at her curiously, but there’s still a hint of anger. “She got a face like mine?”

“A beautiful one?” Betty asks. “Yeah.”

Felicia looks shocked, and she looks away again. “That who you used to be married to?”

“No,” Betty says. Then, “Well. Somethin’ like that.”

Felicia laughs. “Peter likes you,” she says confidently. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You’re charming as anything.”

Betty starts to say something, but her train of thought is thrown off course when her spider sense goes off, an itch on the back of her neck. She turns around the face the window, hurting her shoulder as she does. 

Felicia picks up on the movement, apparently recognizing it. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Betty says, unfolding her mask. “I think it’s just Peter.”

Felicia doesn’t comment, reaching over and grabbing her mask from where she left it earlier. She puts it back on without looking at Betty, and before she can say anything, she walks over to the balcony doors and unlocks them, opening them up and walking back into the room.

She reaches a hand out to Betty, who takes it gladly and lets her help her up. “Thank you again, Ms. Hardy.”

“You can just call me Felicia, doll,” she tells her, and Betty can’t see, but she thinks maybe she’s smiling at her.

Peter lands on the balcony almost silently, but he doesn’t move to step inside. Instead, he takes off his mask and stands just past the threshold. 

“Betty,” he says, and she turns his attention to him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Betty says. “Glad to see you’re not dead on a rooftop.”

Peter huffs, an almost smile settling on his lips. He looks from Betty to Felicia shyly, almost like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to. “Thank you, Felicia.”

Felicia doesn’t respond to him. She just nods curtly, not even looking in his direction. Betty steps off Peter’s coat and picks it up, draping it over her arm instead of putting it back on. “Might’ve gotten blood on this.”

“‘S fine,” Peter tells her. “That’s why it’s black.”

Betty grins, handing it to him when she’s close enough. He takes it and puts it back on. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Hurts,” Betty says. “But I’ll live. I’ll get the bullet out when I’m back to mine. For now, it’s clean.”

Peter touches her right arm gingerly, then looks back to Felicia. “ _ Thank you,  _ Felicia.”

Felicia still doesn’t respond, just nods again. Betty looks back at her. “Really, Felicia. Thank you. For this,” she shrugs her right shoulder and winces, “and for the talk.”

Peter’s gaze flickers curiously between the two of them, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. Felicia still doesn’t say anything, but she at least turns her head in her direction when she nods. Peter looks down at Betty. “Can you swing?”

“Sure,” Betty says. “Left side only, though. And you need to lead. I’m still kinda dizzy.”

Peter nods, pulling his mask back on; Betty follows his lead, but before she pulls it all the way down she turns back.

“Goodnight, Felicia,” she says warmly.

“Goodnight,” Felicia returns.

Betty pulls her mask down and follows Peter off the balcony, leaving Felicia alone in her room, washed in monochrome once again. 


End file.
